Fuego
by nlizzette7
Summary: Change the city, but they'll still set it on fire. / Inspired by Max and Bárbara, the Mexican version of CB. / Gossip Girl Acapulco. / Rated M for smut.
1. Fuego

**A/N: **CB is irreplaceable in my eyes, but I do adore their Mexican versions in Gossip Girl Acapulco. After watching episode five, I couldn't get this out of my head. I'll probably use this to update with one-shots whenever the Maxbara mood strikes, so I hope you guys enjoy it. I've tried my best to translate some of the Spanish within this one-shot, but be sure to PM or tweet me if you need a translation!

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**Fuego.**

_She's good at this_. Max realizes it just as her damp skin slides across his, humid air creating an embrace upon their embrace, her leg hooked around his calf, a momentary roadblock in pursuit of getting the door to his suite open. He doesn't let her hips stray from his, and he tastes his drink on her tongue, or maybe her drink on his. But none of that matters because Bárbara Fuenmayor is touching him in all the right ways, smooth, dainty fingertips pressing into the nape of his neck, searching under the lapels of his blazer, pulling open white buttons to reveal the planes of his chest underneath.

He cannot fathom how Bárbara knows that tracing the arcs of his shoulders alights the flock of goosebumps scattered across his back. She's a virgin, she's _been _a virgin throughout this little game she's been playing with Nico, a game he's been an entertained spectator of since she started buying those pretty little outfits with frills that stop at her thigh and beckon every man to wonder about the rest.

A game that persisted even after Nico went wide-eyed over the lure of pool water and a bright blonde, champagne glasses clinking, wet fabric soaking them down and pulling them under.

But Max doesn't think about that now. His mind is a blur of Bárbi's thighs kissing that pole, her curls a brilliant tornado of everything he never knew he wanted - too prim, too perfect, too delicate to be like anything he's ever had.

"_Maximiliano Zaga_," she breathes in his ear, a torturously knowing smile on her lips, "_Si no abres la puerta ahora mismo…_" She trails off, the words coming out in a hiss this time, a threat to open the door _right _now, and she's so impatient that she reaches back and unzips the silk dress she has on all on her own.

For a moment, the only sound permeating the quiet in that hollow hall is the synchronized song of their heartbeats.

"_Ya, Bárbi_," Max smirks as he lifts her legs around his waist, finally fits his key into the complicated lock. "_Todo esto…" _He gestures down at his own body with a raised brow, "_vas estar aquí cuando entremos." _He promises her that he'll still be here – _all of him, at full attention _– when they get inside, and he's not kidding, not faltering because as the door gives way and they stumble inside with Bárbara practically clinging to him, he knows that there isn't anything that could possibly make him let her slip.

_He's good at this_. Bárbara realizes it as he hoists her up onto a counter, his counter, large hands cupping her thighs, her ass, fingers hooking into the straps of her dress and yanking it off, shoving and unraveling like he's a madman in search of bare skin. It's a move of experience, something calculated that Nico never gave her, something _sure_. Although Bárbara is certain that Max has traipsed around with every harlot in Acapulco, she does not fall under the weight of jealousy, under the insecurity of comparisons. Because Max is worshipping her, kissing and scratching and stripping away clothing almost violently, as if he needs her to breathe, as if he is tethered and too stubborn to shy away. As if she is the only thing that exists.

It is not the cabana under candlelight that she has always imagined with Nico.

But she cannot even lie to herself when she considers it even _better_.

"_Dime lo mucho que me quieres_," Bárbara says in that light, airy voice of hers, gasping as she hits the comforter, drowns in sheets, drowns in Max when he follows, every line of him pressing into her. She wants to know how much he wants her, and he smiles because he's already made himself irreplaceable. He's given her the only thing she's been screaming for, the only thing no one else seems to be able to hear. He loves the way he can play her like a doll, lift her in one sift moment and drop her down, smother her with his kiss in the next. Right now, there is nothing, _no one_, that compares to her flawless skin, the lush redness of her lips, the way her body looks wrapped in that charmingly attractive floral lingerie.

And Max does not hesitate, feels no need to delay telling her.

"_No sabes lo mucho que te quiero, Bárbi,_" Max grunts as his hands dip lower, find her panties damp, her thighs rubbing together in search of friction. "_Esto se siente tan bien_." It _does _feel that good. His smile falls when the heel of her shoe gets caught in the waist of his pants, a mistake of her inexperience, but it arouses him all the same. She keeps it there, spreads her legs beneath him, rubs the source of her need along his cloaked length. And it feels so _right_ that it throws him off, gives her the second to push him down and straddle his hips.

He raises his eyebrows in question, teases her with a smile of disbelief. Bárbi's attempt at taking control is both sexy and incredibly adorable as she crosses her arms over her chest, grinds down and bites her lip at the sensation. Max lifts to kiss her chest again, already working the hook of her bra, already nibbling the swells of her breasts as she sighs and tugs at his hair.

"_Max_," she breathes, lifts his chin with two fingers, smiles when she forces him to look at her. He doesn't often bother with this, doesn't bother with eye contact, a connection beyond what will get him satisfied and then let him loose again. But her gaze is hazel and sweet, set only on him.

Max is gentler, humbled when he speaks against her lips, "_No soy él_." He's not Nico, and he wants Bárbara to know that, wants her to know who's doing this to her.

But she's unaffected, too tipsy to process, too satisfied to regret. "_Yo sé_." She knows.

And she lets him scoop her up and drop her underneath him again, fingers shoving his boxers down, his hands peeling her lingerie away. Max reaches for the pocket of his blazer, reaches down to slip a condom on as he bites into her neck, her shoulder. And when he presses into her, Max's fingertips spreading across her cheek, into her hair, she closes her eyes, tilts her face to the side. He thrusts deeper, and his thumb brushes over her bottom lip. Her gasp is broken when her mouth opens, tongue running over his finger, lips closing around his skin, teeth raking over the pad of his thumb.

Max curses under his breath, fills her to the hilt until her incredibly tight heat is clenched around him, holding him inside of her. "_Eres tan sexy, Bárbi_." She lifts her leg, tilts her head back when he thrusts again and reaches under to cup her ass with one hand. "_Tan bella_." He's falling apart already, intoxicated by her scent, by the gentle urgency of her touch, the entire moment amplified by how forbidden she is.

Once untouchable, and now his.

The thought sends him spiraling into madness, his face falling into the curve of her neck, thrusting, tangling his fingers into Bárbara's hair and pulling, pulling again, never to hurt her, just lightly enough to make her _feel_. And she does. She whispers his name, whimpers affirmations. _Sí, sí, sí_.

Max groans, fingers curling into the sheets, releasing her hair as Bárbara cries out, wraps around him for support in her innocence, clutches his arms, presses into his lower back as they fall together, wetness dripping down one thigh, his release coming in sharp thrusts punctuated with every groan of her name.

Afterwards, Max stays inside of her for a moment, kisses her shoulder, down her arm, her rib, the unimportant parts that now belong to Bárbara. She's not hostile when she pushes him away, but she does because she's _her_. Her shoulders are still poised despite everything when she sits up, clutches the edge of the bed.

"Bárbi."

She ignores him, rolls her eyes, realizes how bright the room is now.

"Bárbi," he cooes again, slides his arm across the sheet.

"_Que?_" Bárbara snaps back, wrapping his sheet around herself. "_Que quieres, Max?_" She wants to know what he wants, what he could possibly want now.

But his answer is simple. "_Quiero…a ti._" You. I want you. "_Quédate conmigo_." Stay with me.

Bárbara's expression softens into surprise, like she doesn't understand what he's saying. Like despite being the queen, despite being showered in compliments, she's never heard those words before. She narrows her eyes at Max, lifts one shoulder before falling back onto the sheets, curling into his side as she blinks up at the ceiling, lightly presses her cheek into his arm.

She feels Max staring, irritatingly smug at his little victory. "_Cállate, Max_." She tells him to shut up though he hasn't said a word. But Bárbara allows herself to smile when he's not looking, when his fingers tickle her back, pull across the nape of her neck.

She allows herself to smile before the dawn breaks.

Because their crooked little story is already falling apart.

_Fin._


	2. Mariposas

**A/N: **Set right after Max finds Bárbara in 1x06. The title means "Butterflies". Dedicated to all of you who are sharing in the Maxbara goodness with me.

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**Mariposas**

He might be addicted.

It's all Max can think of to explain this slow burn when he pulls Bárbara's bottom lip between both of his, sucks and nibbles on the delicate pink skin as they sink further into deeper shadows behind the club. He can taste tears on his tongue, falling from her eyes, slipping against him. But he drinks her in anyway, cups her jaw with one hand and tries to invent a language of their own through every kiss, every pull of her tongue along the bottom of his. He touches her, traces his fingertips along the patterned lace tight around her shoulders, taps every tremble until they are scared away, and she is unshaken.

Max takes a deep breath against her lips. He _must_ be addicted.

If it wasn't so phenomenal, this feeling would be sickening. Because every time Bárbara presses her fingertips into the nape of his neck, every time she strokes down the lapels of his suit jacket to his lithe waist, his stomach rises to his throat, his heart fails him altogether. Well, fuck. He might as well be handing over his control to the Queen of Acapulco on a silver platter.

Bárbara pulls back all of a sudden, presses her carefully pinned up-do flat against the cold wall he has her up against. Her daintily slanted cheekbones are wet, a faint line of black mascara stubbornly etched under her eye. As Max stares, Bárbara says, "_Pues, ganaste_." She announces that he's won with little fanfare, stares down at his fingers wrapped around her ribs, one thumb rubbing back and forth, with a gaze that can either be disdain or confusion.

"_Crees que eso es lo que quiero_?" Max asks, lifting a hand to pull Bárbara's chin up when he asks her if she thinks _that _is what he really wants right now. She frowns, forces herself to focus when the dimmed club's strobe lights are spinning his green eyes into a kaleidoscope of hazel and potential heartbreak. "_Eres mía esta noche._" She's his tonight, sober and sane, eyes open and ready. "_Te vas a sentir lo que se siente tener a alguien esperando por ti_." And in a solemn rasp that cannot possibly be his own, Max promises that she'll finally feel what it's like to have someone waiting on her.

This is not the wonderful fantasy that his arrogant mind had concocted during the hours before. No, this is not Bárbara showing up at his doorstep in black leather lingerie, mewling at him after successfully dumping Nico – but he decides to like this better. Max likes her vulnerable and honest. He likes the way her skin tastes after she's cried.

He can no longer hear the undertones of the dizzying party music that seems to have been playing throughout the backdrop of his life. Instead, he focuses on Bárbara's heavy sigh when his lips part hers. They share a breath and the taste is so exquisite that he parts her legs with rough hands, pulls forward, bunches her dress up in his fist.

"_Max_," she whispers, halting him with a small hand coming over his. She glances back at the crowd outside, hesitates. "_Alguien va a ver._" Max's lips lift into a smirk at her words, and he considers making some joke about introducing her to the art of exhibitionism, but the look on her face, her swollen lips and wet eyes stop him. And suddenly, Max cannot risk losing her to half-hearted amusement.

He cups her face with one hand, encircles her wrist with the other as he whispers, "_Ven conmingo_."

And she does follow him, a hand barely holding his as they wind their way through around dark corners, through a thin alleyway, musty air that sticks to her skin. Bárbara sniffs, her other hand clinging to his suited arm. She's _not _afraid. She's just…wary to fall.

"_¿A dónde vamos, Max?_" Unused to being led, unused to _allowing _anyone to lead her, Bárbara demands to know where they're going. She stomps her foot on the ground, drops her hand from Max's to still them both. "_Zaga, dímelo ahora._" Somehow, using his last name feels an inch more threatening.

But he only smiles, pops the lapels of his blazer before grasping her waist and dipping her backwards into a kiss so searing that it leaves her knees weak. And in another second, Max is dragging Bárbara forward, and she can't help but roll her eyes and stay a step behind.

When they reach the back of the clubhouse, Max almost considers sex on the beach, but he's wearing Armani tonight, and Bárbara has not let her hair touch ocean water since they were seven years old. (He pushed her into the water, and she shoved him into the sand with a surprisingly heavy hand before complaining to Nico that their friend was a _cabrón_.)

So he leads her to the very end of their path, somewhat of a tinted greenhouse, a closed-off lounge holding only one plush bench, revealing the expanse of the beach but cloaking them in their own aloneness. Max clutches her fingertips, bows her to him in one quick draw, and she gasps, searches his eyes whilst holding her breath.

And then Bárbara purses her lips to whisper, "_Ayúdame a olvidar_." Help me forget. The excuse is easy, but this more than that. There's an ache inside of her that she hasn't been able to satiate since the night before, an undeniable desire clinging to her perfection that cannot be shaken. And it cannot be willed away with a snarky insult. And it cannot evaporate with a forced fantasy of Nico's hands because it simply does not work. _He _does not work.

There is only the skewed, infuriatingly smarmy boy before her. And she cannot look away.

And, in return, Max does make her forget – knees on the floor, hands pulling her down to sit upon the abandoned lounge chair. He's not afraid to meet her eyes like the others are – Nico with his hesitance, Sofia with her guilt. He places his hands on her knees, tickles the insides of her thighs until she smiles back.

"_¿Por qué estás sentado en el…piso?_" Bárbara asks, a suspicious frown directed at the club's cement floor. For a stupid, silly moment, she feels protective of his pants. She remembers picking them out on a whim, knowing they would be ill-fitted for Nico, knowing they would be perfect for the daringly…handsome wardrobe of Max Zaga.

But he doesn't seem to care when his lips find the bone of her knee, light fingers caressing her hips. Max likes the way her baby blue skirt hugs her waist, but doesn't quite care for the way it's covering her upper thighs. So he shoves it away, one hand reaching up to caress her cheek, to tangle in her hair and pull her headband away.

Bárbara bites down on her lip as if she doesn't want to like where this is going.

"_Mírame, princesa_," Max quietly orders in a murmur against the skin of her thigh. She shivers, pretends she doesn't like this either, doesn't like the fact that he's taken to calling her princess – mostly condescending, partially in adoration. It's too familiar, too easy. She called him a leech once, angered by the way he wrote himself into her life, forcing herself to forget other details, blinding her to anything but –

_Oh_.

Bárbara moans, and the sound bounces across walls, hits her back in another round of pleasure. His lips are pressed to the fabric of her panties, tongue dampening the material, breath fanning out across her covered skin. She means to push him away, but her weak fingers find purchase in his hair, pull the nape of his neck closer and closer still.

Max smiles, glances up at her. "¿_Es bueno_?"

She ignores him. _Of course _it's good. Of course_, _she'll never admit that. Instead, Bárbara trains her eyes on the dirty ceiling above her. His thumb hooks into her panties, lowers them to trap one ankle. And his hands are so big that they wrap around her thighs when he shoves them apart, tongue dragging up her slit.

She cannot breathe.

"_Max_," she whispers again, bites down on her bottom lip. It's so intimate, the way he suckles the throbbing nub above her center – kissing, almost. He's taking this, or she's giving it to him, or maybe…it's both. She's not sure. All she knows is that Max is the first boy to touch her there, to kiss her there, and if he stops, she might die.

He moans against her then, reaches up to slip a finger into her. Bárbara bows forward when his mouth opens, tongue pressing into her opening, thrusting in time with his hand, lifting and lifting until she cannot help but meet him with broken little thrusts of her hips.

She doesn't not waver when she contracts around him, yells his name.

There is no doubt that she is here with him.

Max lets her come down, presses a hand to her hips when she cannot stop shaking, gingerly lifts her panties back into position. His lips are wet, and he pulls Bárbara in for a kiss on purpose. When she tastes herself, she moans, and he wonders if he'll ever find another girl comparable to this. (But he doesn't care to look.)

"_Mmm,_" he drawls against her cheek, lets her curl into him as they watch the silent, empty beach outside. And the quiet pleasure rises when they are reminded that the rest of the world cannot see them. He slides a hand to her thigh, begins, "_Bárbi_ – "

"_Sin hablar_." No talking, she insists. He tenses, then rolls his eyes as if he doesn't care. And Bárbara closes her eyes, knows that if she plays this right, he'll never know that she likes him as much as he likes her. But in her guilt, she parts her lips, poised to whisper, _Soy mala contigo porque tengo miedo de ser otra cosa. _I'm mean to you because I'm afraid to be anything else.

But the words never come. She just doesn't have it in her.

So Bárbara feigns apathy, lets him want her. And when her heartbeat does not slow –

She ignores the fact that she might be addicted.

_Fin._


	3. Fracturado

**A/N: **Set right after Max finds Bárbara in the bathroom in 1x07. The title means "Broken/Fractured". As always, there will be smut.

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**Fracturado**

Max is not supposed to save her.

Not with the hand in her hair, the other one on her back. Not with the suit jacket he lets her stain, tainted by the proof of her upheaval, molten desserts and a father who never looked back, even when – Max tilts away, grasps Bárbara's stained chin – there was _everything _to come back for. He's not even supposed to save her after he does, after he spends fifteen minutes dabbing her face with his damp handkerchief, smiling at her pout when the sting is not so sharp anymore.

"_Okay, hermosa?_" Easy Spanglish slips from his lips like air. "_Done?_"

Bárbara shoves him out of the bathroom because he seems to get more handsome every time he bothers her, and she'll be damned if she lets Max see her smile now. But he's still there when she surfaces from her porcelain refuge, he's still there once she's brushed her teeth, washed her hands, then washed them again. He's still there with his comfortable grin, his fitted pants, splayed out across her bed like he owns the place. (He might as well.)

Max is still there when Bárbara snaps, shoves her blouse off one shoulder, fits her knees at either side of his waist, yanks his shirt open with quick fingers because this is her unraveling a little bit more every time.

Oh. _This _is how he's supposed to save her.

Well, he _is _good at this. No matter what she's wearing – no matter what elaborate little outfit she spends hours picking out, putting together, zipping on – he'll have it torn up and on the floor in record time. Bárbara forgets to protest when he bites her breast through her bra. These are the things that happen when people get comfortable with each other in bed. He's starting to memorize, she should feel petrified, but she forgets to mind.

So Bárbara's fingers curl in against his chest, and her moan is girlish, airy when he slides inside of her. Her eyes stay shut, and she moves, rolls her hips forward, clit pressing into his heated skin. Dora knows to leave them alone, but she must hear the outright whimpers coming from Bárbara's lips. The entire world must hear this sensual brush of skin against skin, the sharp groan emanating from his smiling lips, the smooth sighs from her own mouth because this is the most calming, _electrifying _thing she's ever felt. Max has one hand on her hip, pulling her forward, holding her still, brushing his thumb across her hipbone, just above where she really needs it.

It's a torturous rhythm.

He feels like he's found the only other broken human being who enjoys this as much as he does.

Max slides his hand to her breasts, cups one, pinches her nipple between two rough fingertips, feels her incredibly soft skin vibrate beneath his touch. Bárbara puts her hands in her own hair, twines her fingers through her curls in the height of her ecstasy because she doesn't process the fact that he's looking the whole time. The groan that follows reminds her otherwise.

"_Te quiero_." He wants her, he has her, but there is no difference. "_¿Sabes lo que me haces?_" It's a question that she can't figure out, not now, not when the room is disappearing around her, not when she can _feel _the light, under her skin, bursting behind her eyelids.

She doesn't know what she's doing to him, but she has an idea.

And his eyes, almost green and completely unwavering, stay trained on her through every single smoldering collision.

Here's the difference between Max and Bárbara. (Perhaps there are many, but there are also very few.) He likes to watch, and it infuriates her because he's busy making memories while she's just trying to erase them. Max pulls her up and down, and she rides him so steadily that his stomach quakes, his throat constricts when he digs his head back into her pillow. He catches sight of her vanity mirror, catches sight of the pair, illuminated by their own reflection. The image makes his hips jerk, makes her grab onto his shoulders when there is no part of him that isn't filling her.

"_Casi allí_," Bárbara exclaims. She's almost there, and all the while, his eyes remain on the mirror. She's so frail, skin like petals, limbs like a doll's. Her skin stretches over the bones of her spine, pops of white bump along until they reach her neck. Not sickly, just sweet. Max's fingertips connect the dots, and he wonders how she dares to break herself the way she does. He wonders how something so perfect can be crumbling out from the inside.

And on cue, she breaks again.

But it's sweeter this time, it's _right _this time. Bárbara's elbows buckle, and she collapses, sticky skin, hot breasts sliding across his chest. Her gasps are uncontrollable, breathy and choked against his cheek, and she trembles like a girl possessed.

He's not sure if he's allowed to generalize yet – but sometimes she cries when she comes. Any other man would halt his hips, a guy like Nico would pull away from hot tears burning the curve of his neck and ask her what's wrong. But Max knows better, Max knows _her_ better. And he just wipes them off her cheeks to allow more to fall, just slides his hands to cup her ass. He just gives her this smile like, _Sí, te gusta esto? _

Yeah. She does like that.

Max thinks he might be imagining it until she really releases a sloppy little murmur, "_Sí. Me gusta_."

And then his cocky grin becomes a grimace, one weak fight against a relentless wave of pleasure. He slides his hand into her hair, presses the other into her lower back, holds her still through three sharp thrusts, holds her still as he digs his face into her hair. She whimpers in the aftermath, and his kiss becomes the softest of bites into her pale shoulder.

The world stills, the waves pool.

She doesn't want to stop touching Max, and he obliges, slips away only to tuck her back into his side.

_"¿Puedo hacerte una pregunta?_"

He's not used to her breathing so much as a word to him after they have sex, so he takes advantage, smirks into her elbow, _"¿Que, quieres hacerlo de nuevo?" _He thinks he's clever for asking her if she wants to do it again, but regret seeps in when he feels Bárbara drawing away, curling back into herself already. Max shifts his approach, whispers, "_Pregúntame lo que sea._"

_"¿Qué hay de bueno en chicas como Sofia? O Jenny Parra?_" She wants to know what's so great about girls like Sofia, bright and unyielding, about girls like Jenny, flustered and pure. The question hovers in the air, but Max understands a different one. _¿Qué es lo que me falta? _What is it that she's missing?

He doesn't answer her for a long time, just counts her faint breaths against his chest. And then he says, "_Si tienes Max Zaga aquí, abrazando te cuando puede tener a cualquier chica en Acapulco, no te faltas nada._" Somehow, a compliment paid to her must also be a compliment paid to himself, and Bárbara doesn't expect anything more than that.

She doesn't expect anything less.

She just blinks, rolls away, waits for him to gather his shirt – a temporary knight for hire, like Nico was. But the slow rustle of disappointment never comes. Instead, his arm is heavy around her waist, his lips burn at the nape of her neck. "_Así que, ¿cuáles son nuestros planes para la tarde?_"

Max wants to know what their plans are for the afternoon, and she'll be damned if she lets him see her smile now, but it happens anyway. And it'll happen again when they're drinking champagne in bathrobes (it's a one-time thing, she swears), it'll happen when they're watching telenovelas, and she's eating macaroons, pretending that she detests him, but holding his hand under the sheets anyway.

And Max _really_ wasn't supposed to save her.

But it's fine.

_Fin._


End file.
